Rutland, Vermont
We had barely arrived in Salisbury, VT, when I spied a flier for the Vermont State Fair in Rutland, which turns out to be just a half-hour south of us. The last great fair I went to was held in Long Island when I was seven, and I fell in love with the idea of country crafts, country cooking and of course, farm animals. I don’t know where I thought I was living, because even back then Long Island was the suburbs, with strip malls, public transportation and all the modern conveniences. This fair was faux, its countryness created by some clever PT Barnum for the delight of all us city folk. But I was only seven. How was I to know?
I’ve spent the rest of my life looking for the perfect country fair, where pigtailed girls get blue ribbons for their prize pig, and ladies in aprons compete for the perfect apple-rhubarb pie, and gents in overalls chew on a straw and chuckle at the antics of the young ‘uns trying to rope a calf.
At my ideal fair there would be jars of homemade jellies and jams, honey, pickles and relishes stretching far down the cloth-covered tables, chili-making contests, fresh fruits and vegetables including pumpkins the size of Cinderella’s coach, giant squash, incredible corn and potatoes that look like a sculpture of a famous person. There would be bobbing for apples and cotton candy, and maybe a Ferris wheel and a few carnival games. But not too many of those. There would be quilts, hand-crocheted baby clothes, and all manner of homespun crafts.
You’d have to go twice to see everything.
Maybe, just maybe, this Vermont State Fair would be like that. It was in the country, after all.
Well, it almost was. We entered to the wondrous song of a merry-go-round, and were immediately wrapped in the aroma of fried dough, a treat you can’t get anywhere else, to my knowledge. So far so good.
We turned left and in front of us lay booth after booth after booth of t-shirts, souvenirs, fake silver belt buckles in the shape of skulls, head wraps in various Goth prints, belts the width of a mini-skit, or maybe they were leather minis the width of a belt, who knows, all kinds of smoking apparatuses, plastic jewelry, plastic key rings, plastic everything – and of course it all was imported from China. Now I like China, but that wasn’t the country I’d come to see.
Turning in the opposite direction, we encountered a series of food concessions designed to raise your cholesterol beyond 400 by the time you reached the end of the lane. Fried dough to be sure, plus French fries, fried onion rings, fried bananas, fried zucchini, fried mozzarella sticks, and a veritable united nations of fast food offerings. And not a fresh vegetable to be had anywhere. No corn on the cob cooked over an open fire with butter and salt. No apple pie. I’m not saying they should have installed a salad bar, but fresh, clean food would have been nice.
We continued past over two dozen carnival games, all of which were being ignored. I guess people have figured out the odds of getting the pingpong ball in the little fish bowl, and the fact that those little cloth dolls with the fringe on three sides are not only visually deceiving, they are also weighted on the bottom and you can’t knock one over unless you have the arm of an Orel Herschiser. Who, by the way, I did a commercial with a long time ago, and he is one lovely man.
I was about to turn around and call it a morning, but John walked on, and lo and behold! (I’ve always wanted to write a lo and behold) back behind all the commercial stuff, we spotted a honey exhibit. And a pickle booth. And a whole building full of crafts. And oh lordy, three barns full of prize cows. Another with exotic reptiles owned by local people. And yet another barn full of beautiful chickens. No kidding. They really were gorgeous.
We didn’t leave for another two hours, my dreams fulfilled and topped off by a stunning display of Canadian-style Mounties on horseback performing maneuvers in the show ring. John got bored then and suggested we leave. “How many directions can a horse go in?” he explained. I couldn't answer him. My mouth was too full of fried dough.
Betty
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